Speak
by August Fai
Summary: Blaise and Seamus do with their eyes what other people do with their voices. M!BlaiseSeamus slash.


A/N: Thank you, Catherine, for reminding me that your favorite swear word is 'goddamnit'. I couldn't have done this without you. starts laughing uncontrollably Ah, whatever.  
WARNING: This fic contains slash, which, if you are not familiar with the term, means a male/male relationship, means queer, means gay. If you are uncomfortable, don't read or review. Simple as that. If you point and laugh, take note that I will do the same, only with a different finger. So! That's that.  
Disclaimer: Copyrights to Harry Potter belongs to JK Rowling, Warner Bros., Bloomsbury, and all those other big-shot companies. Me, I'm just a writer who's still in school. Big difference.

speak

_What you do speaks so loudly that I cannot hear what you say._

–Ralph Waldo Emerson

When Blaise and Seamus find that they are together, they do not talk.

They sit on opposite sides of the classroom, as per tradition: segregated for purposes of supposed rivalry and hatred. Blaise always sits next to Bulstrode–the ugly, fat girl who looks more like a small hippogriff than a human–and Seamus always sits next to Dean, whom Blaise snappishly says will end up as a 'starving artist who'll live in a cardboard box and do anything for head'. When Blaise snorts this, Seamus looks scandalized, but Blaise himself does not wither–he is a Slytherin, and according to him, what he says goes.

He doesn't say anything much, though. So how Seamus ever found out everything he knows about Blaise now, he'll never understand.

It began with eye contact across the room during Potions. Eye contact: a shameful thing, especially between those two houses. Eye contact means staring, and not only that but staring with _meaning _and _conviction, _and that is a crime against the Gryff-Slyth Code of Conduct, if such a thing actually exists. But that is chapter one of the story, and Seamus was fairly taken aback when he looked up from his notes to meet the startling, golden-green eyes of Blaise Zabini. Blaise was looking up through his lashes, and Seamus forgot to breathe for a moment, because suddenly time had stopped and golden-green was Seamus' favorite color and black was his second favorite color, black like Zabini's eyelashes and hair, which was thick and curly. The moment ended, though, and reality rushed back into Seamus' head like the blood that rushed to his cheeks.

He looked back, but all he saw was disinterest–no eyes.

Between eye contact, which was first, and the things that followed, which were obviously second, third, and so on, the two never said a word. Nothing. There was no sound made between the two at all. Maybe there was a breath or two; a startled gasp; a pained squeak–but they were too far away from each other to hear it. Seamus would stare and Blaise would stare back, and that was apparently the equivalent of, _God, how come I never noticed you before? _Blaise would tip his head toward the side and Seamus felt his mouth dry up, and Blaise would laugh, but only inwardly. Both of them would catch the other trying to look without being noticed, but only Seamus looked away, and Blaise thought that was cute, but for the love of God would he never _say. _Darkly romantic are the words that come to mind when you think of falling in love with someone without any verbal contact at all; but maybe that's the way they liked it.

So naturally, the first time they spoke, it was a bit disastrous.

"Hey...Zabini," Seamus said lightly as he fell into step with the Slytherin on the way to Care. He had debated whether to say _Zabini _or _Blaise, _since in his mind Blaise had always been Blaise (save _'fucker' _and _'sexy bastard'_), but perhaps the given name was too tawdry in their first 'real' setting.

Blaise looked up. _Irritated, _Seamus noted, _but why? _"What, Finnigan?" The words had a tone that Seamus had not imagined: a harsh one; cruel, biting, and highly unexpected. _What did you expect? Warmth and admiration? Just because you two have been eye-fucking for months doesn't mean he's all cuddly. He's a _Slytherin. _Did you forget?_

Maybe he had.

"Er..." His cheeks carried a flame. Why was looking so different from talking? Why did gestures have to be so different from voices? Seamus sucked in a breath. "You, er, dropped your book."

"I'm not carrying a book."

_Maybe I can hang myself later. _"Right. Of course you're not."

"Finnigan."

"Yes?"

"Go away."

Seamus went, but only because he had nothing else to say. Had he thought of anything witty and comprehensive, he would have surely said it, though it would automatically put him in line for a Crucio. Seamus was like that–Seamus. He had become an adjective; a synonym for stubborn, lively, and energetic. Nothing seemed to faze him. After the failed encounter using his actual voice, Seamus kept at it.

"Hey, Zabini?"

"Finnigan, go annoy someone else."

"Zabini?"

"Shut up."

"Er...Blaise?"

"Finnigan, _go away._"

"Blaise Zabini, this is–"

"–my worst nightmare. _Leave_."

Maybe the two just weren't cut out for words. Or maybe Seamus was, but Blaise wasn't. True, Blaise was quiet and conserved within himself: if he was angry, you couldn't tell; if he was happy, it was even harder. He seethed, but silently, and he raged, but without words, so to really know him you had to _look _at him; _study _him; forget about everyone else in the room and _focus._

Seamus had no problems with that. He had practice, himself.

They were hardly ever alone but while they were looking at each other, that seemed to be how it felt. If Seamus were to tell Blaise this, the first thing out of his mouth would be a disbelieving snort and then _'that's so goddamned cliche, Finnigan.' _But Seamus isn't planning on saying much to Blaise, and Blaise isn't planning on saying much to Seamus. Actions speak louder than words, goes that goddamned cliche, but how true is it?

Blaise catches up to Seamus after dinner and tugs on his sleeve. His eyebrow is raised, and his eyes are questioning.

No words; but Seamus follows. _It is very true._

That night, things happen, and both of them can't help but wonder why. Magnetic attraction, Seamus muses, or maybe it's silent infatuation, or maybe he's just watched too many movies with his dad. Blaise tells Seamus to keep his eyes open–and he actually _says _it, which in itself makes Seamus keep his eyes open. He doesn't want to miss anything. If he closes his eyes, he'll miss _everything._

Blaise wonders if this can go on–'this', without words. Could he open his mouth and ask? And what should he call Seamus–Seamus? Finnigan? He knows they can't do this forever, this communication without sound or vocal exchange. He can't just go on staring forever: he wants to _speak _things, and forget how angry he was to say them before.

"Seamus, _noi non possiamo fare questo per sempre._" _We can't do this forever. _He forgets to switch to English–or does he? Maybe this is how it starts; this talking thing. Blaise will say all the hard things in Italian, and all the easy things in English. He will do all the affectionate things with his eyes, and do all the hurting with his hands. That seems to work out well. After all, it had already been tested, less than twenty minutes ago.

"Hnn?" Seamus answers sleepily, looking at Blaise through half-lidded eyes; he's tired, and he's got to close his eyes, and that will end the communication. That is why they must talk; must use their voice boxes like normal human beings. And it's hard, because Blaise loves to see what Seamus will do next with his eyes, his fingers, his body–he's mesmerized by sight, and not by sound.

"I didn't say anything."

"Oh. Okay." There's a pause, and Seamus' eyes have nearly shut. "Hey, Blaise?" he whispers.

"What?"

"I think I'm in love with you."

Blaise closes his eyes. It is only then that he remembers he can't send a look to Seamus, so he speaks instead.

"I know. I've been watching."

_-fin-_


End file.
